The Bloody Thief
by NevaRyadL
Summary: Gunnar was not alone when he fled Helgen. There were four others with him, each of varying skills, personalities and back stories. This is the story of Anton, a silent elf with exceptional assassination and thievery skills wondering aimlessly with a curse given to him hundreds of years ago. Will he seek a way out, or slip further into the darkness?
1. Chapter 1

I rise from the dead with another fic! This one is about one my my dragonborns turned background chars. I figured that he had a decent enough backstory to attempt a fic, so here I go~

WARNINGS: Will contain M/M sex, blood drinking during sex, and size kinks. If you do not like, then please, do not read!

* * *

Breathing hard, the elf used his dagger as a makeshift pickaxe, chipping away at the stones that blocked their exit. At his sides were the big Nord named Gunnar and the massive Khajiit named Od-Kaaz, hacking away at the stones with steel swords, sometimes abandoning the weapons to pull away stones that they had broken or knocked loose.

"Anton, maybe you should take a break?" The tiny Nord woman, Rayvahn, suggested.

Wheezing, the little wood elf refused to stop, continuing to contribute to their escape.

The group, with its size, had been hard to move as a group. So what would have been a clean exit had been blocked off when the dragon decided to land on the hillside where the cave network that they were use, causing several tunnels to collapse as well as the tunnel that would have had lead out. Now the big Nord, Gunnar, and the big Khajiit, Od-Kaaz, and the little Bosmer, Anton, were trying to dig their way out while Rayvahn hung back.

There had been two more of their group, Ralof and an Altmer mage named Bruniik-Kah, but they had gone off to see if there were any unblocked tunnels. However, both had seemed pessimistic about their odds of success, just as Rayvahn was pessimistic about Anton's odds of simply not passing out from exhaustion… or not being able to breathe.

Sinking his slender little fingers into some cracks, Anton managed to work out several sizeable stones and tossed them aside before pausing to catch his breath. He looked like he was suffering greatly, breathing like he had been running for miles. Though strangely, sweat just barely shined across his darkly tanned and heavily tattooed skin.

"Anton?" Rayvhan tried again.

"Hold on…. Here we go" Gunnar grunted.

He and Od-Kaaz had their hands on a massive rock, one that was about to come out of the rubble wall. The two giants agreed to a system of one pushing all the way on one side, and then the other pushing all the way on the other side, wiggling the giant rock back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth, they wiggled the rock, until finally, with a mighty groan the rock came loose in their arms. They heaved the weight away and started clawing out stones that had just been. After a few minutes, light came in, and after a few more minutes more light streamed in, along with a thin stream of cold air.

"Looks like we broke through" Gunnar grunted, wiping away the sweat from his brow "But…I'm with Od-Kaaz in saying that only little Anton can wiggle through there"

Anton swallowed, obviously not enthused about attempting such a thing.

"Then let's keep at it, and be careful about losing this much progress" Od-Kaaz rasped.

"Or I could try, I'm not that much larger than Anton" Rayvahn suggested.

Anton shook his head.

"Right, back to digging then kiddies" Gunnar chuckled.

* * *

When Bruniik and Ralof came back, Ralof went to digging and Bruniik went to lifting things and moving things with Telekinesis. He had to stop every so often to take a breather, but he helped a great deal. And seeing him doing so much, Rayvahn used her Conjuration magic to summon a Storm Thrall to her side to blast away at the rocks when they came upon a stubborn knot of stones.

After an hour they finally managed to make a passage that even Od-Kaaz could squeeze through. And taking full advantage, Anton slipped through, than Rayvahn, Bruniik, then Ralof, then Gunnar and the Od-Kaaz. The big Khajiit had some trouble getting through, his massive shoulders got stuck at one point and Gunnar had to go and pull him free. Which involved a rather comical stumbling and rolling about when Gunnar pulled back too hard and ended up with the odd Khajiit on him, which only made Gunnar laugh as the embarrassed Khajiit scrambled to get off of him.

But they were out finally, the sun was just setting, giving them just enough light to see their surroundings.

"Alright," Ralof sighed, rubbing some dirt from his face before looking around "My sister's house in nearby, I should head there to see if she's alright. Any of you lot want to come with?"

"I think I've hung around long enough, I'll take my leave" Bruniik smiled "Besides I want to… repay, the Imperials for their kindness"

"I'll also like to do some more exploring, like I was trying to do before those bastards caught me" Rayvahn sighed.

"I'll go with you, Ralof" Gunnar smiled "How about you, Anton?"

The little elf shook his head before bluntly walking off into the wilderness.

* * *

Breathing heavily, Anton ran through the wilderness of the forest of Skyrim. However, despite seeming excessively tired, his body moved without the slightest of sounds, his feet seeking the smallest footholds. It was the footwork of a master thief or rogue, not a run of the mill elf.

It was obvious by the way he moved with the slightest effort and the minimal amount of sound that he was trained in at least some ways of the Thief, but what thief would have such an extensive scar across his throat that looked someone had tried to slit his throat?

Whatever mysteries he held, he could not stop holding, for it seemed he lacked the ability to spill them.

* * *

Shortly after wondering about, a thief came upon him. The feisty little Dunmer demanded all that he had on him, and was quite furious when he did not say anything. She held out a rather impressive looking dagger out at him, saying that she would be the one to slit his throat, since the first obviously failed.

He glared at the dagger, and then snarled, revealing sharp red tipped teeth. It took the girl approximately one second to realize what creature she had just messed with. And within that time, he had stepped forward, caught the wrist that held the dagger, and then thrust it back into her chest and consequently into her heart.

The girl coughed and sputtered, and then dropped dead, bleeding out internally. Very little blood dripped from where the knife was buried, though no one but the elf could guess why. It seemed that his elongated fangs did give a clue to his nature at least.

He was a vampire. But a vampire that did not want blood spill was an odd one indeed, as well as one coupled with the fact that he appeared to have extensive rouge training, who had managed to get his throat practically carved out. But again, he had no way of telling his story.  
Gauging the dead thief's size, he quickly stripped her of her basic leather armor, under clothing, weapons and pack.

He messed around with the armor bit, but found that the Dunmer had been a bit on the chesty side and the molded chest piece would only make him look more feminine than he already looked like being a Bosmer, so he scrapped it and slipped on the undershirt and pants, bracers, boots and leather kilt instead. They fit well enough, and while being undead meant that he hardly felt any of the ill effects of the living, he felt the bitterness of the cold. And the Nord land was exceptionally cold, both in temperature and acceptance. He needed pelts, or better armor soon, lest the Nords think that he was not the weak little elf that he appeared.

He tested the thief's weapons, two simple steel daggers that were far too light for his tastes. But they were the only weapons he could get his hands on at the moment, so they had to do. But they were in terrible condition, so he needed to at least get them sharpened soon. Anything was better than nothing, especially true in his case of the simple iron dagger he had worn out trying to free himself and the others from rubble.

The pack yielded the best loot. It contained several days supplies worth of dried food, as well as what Anton thought to be the loot from several victims. About a hundred gold coins, several semiprecious gems and a rather lovely necklace that Anton found himself clipping on around his neck, and tucking it under his shirt. The gold he figured he could use to either buy things or keep in case the option to buy things presented itself.

Suiting the pack on his back, he left the dead, naked thief to the wilderness and made his way to where he thought the closest road.

* * *

Walking along the road, Anton was attacked by three red soldiers from the place that he was almost beheaded. They had recognized him and rather disliked that he did not answer their jeering and lewd calls. They further disliked when he broke the arm of that that dared to grab him. He had to go through a short tussle with them that ended in four broke arms, two shattered kneecaps, two black eyes and a few dozen cuts on their side before the cowards ran.

But the experience just reminded him how much ire he drew from living creatures that they seemed to just want to attack him for no reason. His very existence seemed to provoke violence, not that he cared much. A few hundred years with his undead curse had taught him much, and his life beforehand had been nothing but strife as well, so many people wanting him dead or in their bed.

Walking along the road, he was a sight. A skinny elf with dark and tattooed skin with a blood red Mohawk, wearing only leather braces, boots and kilt, with glowing eyes and dark red lips. And an aura of coldness with the lingering smells of death around of him.

He had been a thief in his life, one of the best actually. He could steal everything out of your pocket without being seen, in and out before anyone could even realize that he had been there. He could pick the toughest locks without even scratching his picks, rob the house blind without alerting the residents even if they were awake. He also had a habit of slipping cracked bottles of potent poison into pockets if he did not like the person, slowly killing them and giving him ample time to get away.

And then one day he tried picking the pocket of a vampire and had actually gotten away with it. However, when he had reported to the Thieves Guild, it turned out that vampire was there to confront the thief, him. The vampire had also slaughtered everyone there before he could get there, and then tried to kill him. And after an epic battle, he had pulled his dagger from the bastard's head but with an unknown little something that the bastard had left.

By the time he had noticed it was too late. So he was forced to simply progress through the levels of vampirism, watching his body and needs change day to day. His skin paled, his eyes changed, and his hunger changed. Food no longer satisfied him, and the necks of random strangers just seemed so tempting. He killed several people in several hunger induced panic attacks, ripping open their throats to steal what he wanted. He entertained the idea of stealing both the person's possessions and their life, being the ultimate thief.

But then the thought that he needed to kill someone to get survive… disgusted him. He tried to think of simply being the creature that preyed on sentient beings, that it was the food chain and no different than when a man, elf or Beast killed an animal for food. Or his own damned people, some of whom ate each other and nothing else. But the thought of killing people, with families, jobs, possessions, friends and memories… just haunted him.

For a time, he just ate the elderly and family-less wanderers. No one would miss them, right? And if he did not drink, then he would be prone to attacking others, and revealing that he was a vampire had a habit of getting others like him killed. And as squeamish about killing as he was, he was even more so about his own life. As lonely and tiresome as the undead life was, he simply could not bring himself to commit his own death.

However, most if not all of the blood tasted foul and carried diseases that made him sick. He spent quite a few nights simply barfing up the meals he worked so hard to hunt down. And soon, the amount going in was simply be regurgitated back up and it was like if he was not feeding at all. He soon had to keep himself away from anything with warm blood flowing through his veins. And eventually, he found himself a nice cave and simply stuck to it.

He stayed in that cave, never moving and never allowing himself to fall to the temptation of his hunger, for almost two decades. And during that whole time he fought and fought with himself with the hunger, eventually barricading the door during a fit of sanity to protect the blood carriers outside.

But then one wayward adventure had to move the boulders and find him. A starved looking elf with glowing eyes and fangs. The man attacked him, stuck a knife through his throat and carved right through it, and he defended himself… and then went too far. The man was on the ground, begging for forgiveness and he… he clawed, ripped and bit until the man was a mess. And then drank all the blood he could get into his mouth.

After that… he had stayed in his little cave, looking at the carved carcass for a week until it started rotting and smelling foul. And still he looked at what he had done for his blood lust… And then cried and screamed for days. When he finally stopped, he felt his voice stalled and dying in his bleeding throat, and then ran as fast as he could into the untamed wilderness until he was sure that he was in parts that no one would touch for a while yet.

He dug himself a hole and then reburied himself.

And then slept.

He spent over a hundred years under the earth, slowly being buried deeper into the ground with mudslides and falling earth from burying creatures. At one point, a tree's roots wrapped around him, securing him deep in the ground. Creatures moved around him above the ground, be he remained in his slumber.

The lack of blood helped, his body shutting everything down that it could to focus on healing him. But even deep in his slumber, he could feel the sloppy healing. His throat only scabbed over, half healing and thus, robbing him of his voice. The wounds scarred deeply, heavily in his skin and muscle.

When he awoke again, awoken by fighting that was occurring on the dirt above him, he was spurred to travel again. For some reason, he wanted to test the willpower he had been growing in the ground. And he found, that even in the presence of a lot of blood, that he was not tempted by a single drop. It seemed that the disgust in himself and the extreme state of his hunger had finally killed his appetite for blood. Strange… he was so starved that he no longer was hungry.

And he had thought himself safe until the ambush. Turns out that hatred between the races had not dulled like his appetite. They captured him, along with the others and they were sent to the block. He had almost seen Gunnar beheaded before that black dragon attacked. And then the whole stumbling through the underground cave mess.

At least now he was out on his own. He was not meant for the companionship. He was meant to be alone. But further more.

He was meant to kill.


	2. Silent Night

Wee, another chapter. I would have finished it yesterday, but fukkin Tumblr. Anyway, enjoy! ((And thanks to Shannon and salllzy for reviewing :D ))

* * *

The waiting game for work was nothing to him. After all, his kind only fed on the blood of living creatures, and required very little else. He could bum around and just wait for work to fall into his lap, taking each job with leisure.

But he was in desperate need of clothing, decent weapons, and any leads on any sort of work.

He ended up resorting to old habits, and started pick pocketing again, much to his cringe. The ways of the thief had lost flavor to him after that vampire wiped out his guild, friends and then left him cursed. Not to mention, he always pick pocketed for money to buy food and lodging, and well... there really was not much need for those things now a days.

However, he found himself rusty and out of practice, and the Nords or Skyrim made sure to keep a close eye on him wherever he went. Now, his bad day was still a magical day to any other thief, and while he could manage to still walk away with small things, if that person realized that it was missing he seemed first to blame. He could be almost out the doors to the building or hold and suddenly he would have a red faced Nord running after him, hollering and pointing thick fingers at him.

Now, originally, he would have just left, slipped away into the shadows to never be seen again. But the offended Nord would always end up bringing the guards, and those damned guards would always take the Nord's side. He originally tried to explain that there was nothing wrong, through written notes and hand gestures. But the Nords would either ignore them and continue yelling, or they would start in the slurs and call him names, or worse yet they would start getting physically violent.

In most cases, he ended up incapacitating whoever came at him, so silently and swiftly that the Nords would not chase after them from such a humiliating defeat, leaving him to storm away. And after too many incidents, he could no longer pickpocket without it causing more trouble than what little gold he was making was worth.

He had to resort to breaking into stall shelves at night, taking as little as he could so he could sell it elsewhere. People grumbled about him the next day, but there was nothing that they could do. A small win for him, since it was more obvious when he walked away with jewelry and coins apparently then when he sold familiar pieces of armor and trinkets to merchants. But at least he was turning a profit without having Nords hounding his every other step.

After several weeks of skimming items from stalls, he finally had enough to sharpen his stolen daggers and get a leather chest piece to protect his skinny torso from the bitter cold of Skyrim. He hoped to have enough for some pelts to keep his normally cool skin warm enough to pass off as living, but figured that the imaginary taxes that Nords would force on him would make sure that he kept to just his chest piece.

Looking around for a bit, he decided to go to Riften. In a city ruled by greed and corruption, there was bound to be someone willing to make him armor for the right price. Perhaps he could even see if he could even find the whispers of some work, after all, judging by the mere rumors of the city, it seemed like a the perfect place with people that wanted others… discreetly taken care of. If nothing else, it would offer the work he was more than willing to pick up.

Reaching the city, he realized right away that it was the city that he was looking for. The guards at the gates wanted a 'tax' for entrance, but were easily dissuaded when he made a motion to yell. Corruption in law enforcement, and open corruption at that, were tell-tale signs of just how horrible the conditions inside of the city were. And the more corruption within a government, the more work he could look forward too. And the more work he could look forward to, the more he could look forward to some basic armor and weapons.

Inside the city, he brushed past some rude Nord that wanted money out of him in exchange for information that probably could be found in the tongues of the drunks and the poor. The Nord called out several searing slurs after him, which prompted a passing by Dunmer to kick him in the groin and storm away, so it was not too terrible. It seemed that there was still racial tension, but everyone did not care what the authorities had to say and took justice into their own hands.

Corrupt AND lazy law enforcement only made his day better. It meant that there was a Thieves Guild in the city, and while he tried his hardest to not be a thief, the signs of a Thieves Guild usually meant that there would be a guild of hitmen out there somewhere. Perhaps even a sect of some of the more known ones, like the Dark Brotherhood. And if he could find the guild, then he could find work.

The blacksmith was in a small area dedicated to market stalls. Right next to the man selling Health Potions mixed with nirnroot and claiming it to be Falmer blood. And while it was another Nord, upon realizing that Anton had the coin, was more than happy to provide armor for him. Apparently he saw more then enough elves with the Thieves Guild, and did not care much for race so long as the person has the coin for the goods. And since smaller elves like the Bosmer and the Dunmer used less materials, it usually was cheaper to make armor for them, if slightly harder.

Taking him inside his little work shop, the blacksmith took measurements of the different widths, lengths and shapes of his torso, arms and feet. After figuring out how much leather and other materials were going to be needed, the time it was going to be needed to make such an armor, and figuring it within his other commissioned items, he told Anton the price and the time it would take.

"I can have it done the day after tomorrow" The Nord said, as Anton slipped his borrowed boots and other items back on "I could probably get it done tomorrow night, but people have stopped picking up their things from me. They want me to deliver them, like I have time for that"

Figuring that it would rush his order, and maybe encourage the big blacksmith to scrap a few gold off the price, Anton made a grabbing motion towards the Nord, cocking his head to the side slightly. And after a moment of staring blankly at him, the big nord finally said 'Oh!' and went to gather some of the things that were getting in the way of his armor.

Sure, it meant that he, an elf, would be doing the work of a human. But if it meant that he was going to be getting his armor even a little bit sooner, that would mean he would have that much more time to free up to go looking for the assassin guild. Besides, he could always walk away with everything if the Nord started to think that an elf offering a hand was the equivalent of servitude. Though he was hopeful in his odds of that NOT happening.

The blacksmith gave him a pack with simple leather boots, three sets of daggers, a sword and a riding crop.

"The boots go to the Argonians running the inn, the daggers go to the redhead selling the potions outside, the sword goes to the Earl's spoiled brat in the palace's courtyard, and well… the crop goes to the Orphanage" The blacksmith said "I highly recommend you save the crop for last"

He wanted to ask why in the world would an orphanage needed a riding crop. But then decided that he would not, and could not. So he figured he would just deliver it to be rid of it. After all, if the headmaster of the orphanage liked to beat the children, what was it to him? He cared not for the affairs for Nords, or any sort of humans for that matter, and nor did he want to care.

So bidding a farewell wave to the blacksmith, he started delivering the orders so that the blacksmith could work on his order. He decided to deliver the sword first, the daggers and then the boots so that he could get out of being around the Nords as soon as possible, and then the riding crop last simply because he did not want to think about the implications of such a thing in an orphanage. And the sooner he could start looking for that possibly existing assassin's guild.

So, walking outside he hooked a right and walked over to the palace courtyard, where a young Nord with a pinched face was swinging a sword at a dummy. It took several motions of his arm to realize that either the man was purposefully ignoring him, or focused on training. So taking a piece of paper from his journal, writing 'FROM THE BLACKSMITH', tied it to the handle, stalked over to the dummy and stabbing it through and then walking away from the utterly surprised Nord.

With the daggers, he had to stand and suffer through the redhead trying to sell him the fake potions for but a moment before he shoved the leather case into the redhead's face. He wanted away, when he felt the redhead try to pick his pocket. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it around, threatening to break it with the tightness in his grip and the way he held the hostage limb. Contrary to what normal humans would have done, he expertly twisted his way out of it with a strange smile. But he did not stick around to find out what the man had to say, or figure out why he was skilled in the ways of a rogue, though it could have been because he might have been part of the Thieves Guild. He just walked away, product delivered.

The Argonians were much more pleasant, in a sense. They were a bit brisk, and a bit hard headed, but they were far kinder than the Nords of the city, that was for sure. Firstly, they thanked him for going out of his way to help anyone, and were understanding to his 'disability'. The kind lady Argonian tending the bar implored him to take a seat and merely listen to her chat. It seemed that she could tell that he too held a similar distaste for the humans of the city, humans in general.

Over a cold mug of the local brew, she told him how they only remained in business because the other tavern was exclusive at best and because the innkeeper was a raging whore for Dibella. She told him of the muttered slurs she would hear when the local Nords got drunk and she did not do as they say, the angry insults when they were somber and angry, how they pestered her and her husband almost everyday about picking a side in the war. She told him of the filth rotting the city, how the Thieves Guild demanded 'protection' pay out of her and how she had stopped paying months ago because they simply held faltering power. And finally, she told him of how the minority races of Skyrim had to stick together, even if their pasts almost demanded that they fight, lest the Nords make slaves of them all.

"You have to know what I mean" She said, scrubbing the counter of spilled mead and ale "You're a Bosmer, and you're a wild looking, handsome fella at that. I'm sure you've been hounded as many times as I have by horny Nords"

He nodded grimly, thin lips pressed together in a troubled line.

"Those Nords, always looking for 'exotic' conquests to conquer. Too many of them just want a hole that belongs to some other, dumb, muscular brute, and don't get me started on how many of them have the weirdest fucking kinks ever. I had a customer in here once, went on and on about my tail, would not stop. Finally had to kick him out after one too many drinks and the bastard thought that he could get frisky" She growled out "Just goes to show you, those Nords are nothing but bad news"

Again he nodded.

"Anyway, thanks for delivering those boots. And watch your back and you front for those no good Nords"

Nodding again, he downed the mead before giving a polite incline of his head goodbye and leaving to get rid of the final object. The riding crop.

* * *

He had never been in many orphanages, being both uninterested in children and because they were miserable places, so the smell of sheer… cleanness was unexpected and unpleasant. As was the miserable woman who sat at a table, staring blankly at the exceptionally clean wood.

When he approached, her lips parted and she droned out an obviously rehearsed line.

"I am sorry, but the children are not up for adoption today"

He sighed and shook his head before reaching into the pack and presenting the riding crop. At the mere sight of it, the woman let out a pathetic whimper and shook her head. He growled and held it closer to her, trying to get her to take it. After all, she had to be the one that had bought it. There were no other adults present. But she just shook her head and refused to touch it, let alone look at it.

"Please, just hide that thing, if she sees"

The doors to another room flung open, and a rather ugly, twisted old hag were regrettably revealed. Behind her, he happened to see several children huddled together, but what caught his eyes was… acros pale skin were numerous bruises and small cuts.

"Ah, I see my crop came in, give me" The old hag grinned crookedly, snatching the crop out of his hand before turning towards the child with an evil, malicious smile "Children look, a new toy for us to play together with"

Now, he cared little for the agenda of Nords. He cared not what they did unless they tried to forcibly involve him. He was no hero, he was not the good guy, he was not there to save anyone, certainly not with his curse and his affinity for work. And he certain cared not what obviously rotten Nords did within their jobs.

But…

It was obvious that she was abusing children out of a sick, twisted sense of self pleasure. She probably got off on it. And these… were children. They could be taught not to be monsters that the adults around them were. Children only learned to hate from wicked adults, they only learned to be racist bigots from poor adult figures. Hatred was not born into children, it was learned or forcibly burned into their minds. Children were reflections of their environment and nothing more. They were innocent.

He was no good guy.

Anton started to walk away, and was almost to the door when he heard the first crisp snap of the riding crop, the first shrill scream. And suddenly his steady feet were betraying him, turning him around and quickly walking back into the room to see the old hag holding the arm of a young girl, a small hand holding her little side.

For some reason he was angry. Though he did not know why. He hated all Nords and humans alike, and he cared not what they did. So why was he suddenly caring now?

The old hag raised her arm to wail on the girl again, but found her old wrist captured by his hand. The old bitch did not even have time to look over her shoulder when a foot collided with her kneecap with a loud and wet crunch. She cried out herself, hands dropping both the girl and the crop, as she fell to her good knee.

He should have ended it there, but that dark desire inside of him, the one that made killing so easy, suddenly sprung up. He felt it tickle the back of his throat, that sour and bitter taste akin to bad blood, felt something hot and sick twist his insides, and felt a blood-haze take over his eyes, turning everything a lovely red. The lust to kill took over.

Darkly tanned, tattooed hands wrapped around the old bitch's throat, digging in as hard as they could. The old bitch tried to scream, long nails coming up to shred and tear at the skin to no avail. Pathetic little squeaks escaped her lips as an unsettling red colored her wizened cheeks. Her body trembled with the effort of trying to escape, the need and will to live.

It was much like watching a trapped animal squirm around, trying to free themselves from the hunter's trap. They want to live with all their heart, despite having little to live for. Mates, food, adventures… nothing that would depend on their existence. Even animal's children were more or less suited to live on their own when expelled from the womb.

And this woman had none of that. The children she was supposed to be raising? Now standing, watching with gleeful fascination as the life was choked from her. The other woman? Now standing off to the side, a dark smile gracing her painted lips. Even the building was eagerly waiting for the life to be robbed from the woman, everything silenced for the showing of her death.

The red in her face slowly turned a vivid blue/purple color as her body quickly ran out of fresh red blood. Perhaps if she were not panicking as much as she was, then she would have longer. But she was moving around far too much, expelling too much air, moving her arms too much and putting too much energy into escaping. Her natural reaction to live was only quickening her death.

Soon, her movements started to slow, the squeaks coming with less and less frequency. Her hands started to slow, to stumble, nails catching less in his skin. Snot and tears dribbled down her wrinkled face as she realized that she was dying and there was no hope. The trembling in her body started to slow and stop.

Finally, her movements ceased, her arms falling to her sides as her eyes lost the luster of life in them. And after another moment to make sure that she was dead, he released his hands and let the worthless carcass fall to the ground. The thin, frail body fell to the ground with hardly a whisper, like even if knew that it was not worth too much to begin with.

Looking up at the staring children, he realized that he had just done both a sick and heroic event. This was going to draw attention to himself. He did not need that. Especially if he wanted work as an assassin.

An assassin, a good one anyway, was both unseen and not heard of. He was supposed to be the face in the crowd that no one would point to, the unheard shadow in the dark alley, the individual whom you would never suspect. A poor assassin left calling cards, they made their faces and location known for fame and praise. These poor assassins are usually killed early on, or worth. Good assassins are never caught, and can eventually retire at one point to live normal lives with no one ever being able to point anything at them. A good assassin never killed in front of others unless it was for an exceptionally good reason.

Why did he kill the old woman, in front of children none the less?

Looking at the children, he saw something… disturbing in their eyes.

Happiness. Joy. Praise.

He was not used to someone looking so happy that someone had just died, let alone children, let alone children that were actually looking up to him for killing someone.

He needed out.

He needed air.

He pressed a finger to his lips, and hissed out

"Shssssh"

And ran out into the night.


	3. The Dark Road

Sorry for the wait, I'll try and upload a few smutty oneshots for Valentines Day

* * *

Hiding in a rented room, inside of the Bee and Bard, Anton thought over his actions at the Orphanage.

He avoided 'heroic' actions since long ago, when it was obvious that someone of his size and race would make little impact in the world. When he realized that it was best to stick to the shadows and stealthy strike down those that strayed too close to the edges of those shadows, it was the only way to make a difference in anyway. Even as a thief, he found himself drawn to targets of wealth, saying that it was for the coin but really just trying to get back at the rich. He certainly stopped anything even remotely 'good' after acquiring his curse, killing without discrimination if the coin was good enough. After all, no creature with his curse was good for anything but killing and death. It only seemed right.

So… why did he do it?

He did not want to think about it. It some some part of his once living being coming through, that hopeless fool who thought he could do by doing bad. And if that fool was still lingering somewhere in his head… then there was no telling what that bastard would try to do. He was no longer that fool that watched his guild get slaughtered, he was a creature of the darkness, forever chained to it by an imaginary collar. If that old self of his got out… no. It was too late for such petty wishes and dreams. To cleanse himself of so many centuries of terrible deeds was too much for him to hope, too much for him to want.

Long ago he had dealt with being a being with little worth. Being beaten down in his youth for being smaller and skinny then the other elf children, being berated by other races for being an elf, being harassed by other races for being an elf, being treated like trash for being a thief, losing all her loved for being a thief and then becoming a vampire. He had been taught almost since birth that he was not worth any effort, not worth the air he breathed, not worth being bothered over. He had almost beat that training out of himself when he was a thief, almost, and then he had lost everything.

Now he still thought he was nothing. But he figured that 'this little nothing can rob you blind, kill you without a sound, hide the body, and you wouldn't be missed for a month' and took some small comfort in that. And after it became obvious that so many years, that no one would be interested in anything about him but his body, he killed the need for companionship. And now… well he guessed that after so many years, if his old self came back out, then it was not too bad. Just another thing to work towards, killing those linger shreds of his old, cocky thief self.

With a heavy sigh, he dosed the single candle in the room. He stripped out of his gear, laying it out on the table next to it. Under the veil of shadows that his undead eyes pierced through with ease, he crawled into bed, hoping to avoid his nightmares.

* * *

In the early morning, before the crack of dawn, there was an awful banging on his door. It took a moment for him to rouse himself from slumber to put together what was going on. And when he did, he could only sigh deeply.

And knowing the preceder, because he knew full well what they were here for, he sleepily got out of his bed, pulling the cover with him. He wrapped a blanket around himself, so he appeared helpless and small, and furthermore played on his looks, and grabbed his notebook and a piece of charcoal. So when he opened the door to two angry guards and one seriously pissed off Keerava, he appeared like a little, adorable Bosmer in an oversized shirt.

"YOU FUCKING NORDS-" Keerava started.

"Elf" One guard said in a thick Nordic accent "We need a word with you"

He quickly scribbled in his notebook

_I am mute, so I need to communicate this way_

The guard seemed like he was about to protest, so he bent his neck backwards to reveal the thick scar across his throat, and to make his neck more visually appealing. If it was true about Nords liking 'exotic' conquests, then he would have to play on his race and looks, as much as it made him sick.

When he was a thief, it was not infrequent for him to flirt with potential victims to get them to lower their guard, and he had been pretty decent at it. When he became a vampire assassin, he found himself too distraught with his curse to try and get close to humans without worrying that he would feed his curse. And while it had been quite some time since he had tried it, he still knew a few tips and tricks to at least distract people, subtly change their perspective and opinion of him through movements and appearance.

And, it seemed that it was working, because he noticed both the guards adjusted their stances uncomfortably, even Keerava seemed a bit distracted.

"Alright, answer us this, elf" The other guard gruffed "Do you know Grelod the Kind?"

That must have been the name old lady running the orphanage. But he did not let it show in his face. Instead, he let his eyes widen slightly, tilted his head to the side, and puckered his lips slightly in thought. And seeing the movement, he saw the guards adjusting their stances again, the slightest of bulges in their armored skirts. And he almost could not believe that it was so easy. Were all Nords horny beasts? If so… then work would be too easy for him.

_No, I'm sorry_, he wrote

"Well, ahem, alright then. It can't be you then, sorry for the disturbance" One of the guards said.

Nudging his companion, he urged the man to follow him as they left down the stairs. That just left him and Keerava, who was still slightly peeved. Her scales held a very warm tint to them, almost like an angry flush, if her cold blood could run hot like that. It was almost endearing, in a strange sort of way.

"Fucking Nords, just stormed in and demanded to know where you were. Aimed a sword at my throat when I refused"

He patted her shoulder to show that he had no hard feelings. After all, an unarmed barmaid against two armed, armored guards? Not everyone was like him and trained to handle almost every situation that headed his way. And it seemed to put the Argonian to some small ease, though that still left the agitation towards the Nords. Then again, he was sure that nothing would sake that, save removing her from a land filled with Nords.

"I should report them, but that fucking Earl is a Nord too. She'd probably side with the guards"

He nodded, in silent agreement.

* * *

Dropping down from the wall, a dark shadow approached Honor Hall from the the back. The shadow slinked along the side of the building, practically hugging it, carefully making its way to the front. It almost did, when a guard passed by. The torch that the ripped Nord carried gave off little light, not enough to catch the shadow. But the light was enough to illuminate a red and black dressed man, a green tail sweeping across the ground. And then the light passed and the shadow once again disappeared into the thick veil night.

Once it was dark again, the shadow slinked towards the door, the handle twisting without resistance, before it slipped into the building. The door slightly shutting behind the shadow as it joined the shadows inside the building.

Inside, the lights had long been blown out, the lamps extinguished and the fireplace close to eating the last of the firewood left for it to feed off of. So it was all the easier for the shadow to easily, silently, swiftly, sneaking through the main hall, the first main room, the children's room and the silent breathing of their little chests, and the grab the handle of the door that lead to the headmistress' room. Checking around once to make sure there was not a naughty child eyeing him from the safety of their blanket, the shadow twisted open the door handle and slipped inside.

The door clicked shut behind it, and the shadow silently stalked towards the bed with a shape inside of it. As it moved without the slightest whisper, it pulled a dagger from within its dark shape, the blade piercing even the darkness as it shined slightly in the dark. The wicked gleam seemed to hunger for the shadow's target's blood as the shadow slinked towards the body in the bed.

The shadow approached the bed, the dagger rising. And as the shadow loomed over the bed, the dagger raised as high as it seemed at it would, the shadow snarled out.

"Die"

The knife plunged downward, piercing the body in the bed. And for a moment, the shadow seemed hesitant as to what it had to do next. But after a moment, a part of the shadow broke off and touched part of the body. It remained there for a moment before it aggressively grabbed the blanket covering the body and ripped it away, the blanket ripping where the dagger was buried. But with the blanket ripped away, it revealed the still grotesquely twisted face of Grelod the Kind, paled in death and her throat and neck bruised with where the force of Anton's hands had been.

"She… was already dead?!" The shadow hissed.

It took a moment to prove itself otherwise, checking the pulse, the temperature of the skin, the bruising coloring, the way that the body bled sluggishly around the dagger. But it was obvious that the body was dead, and had been for a few hours. And upon realizing that the old woman was indeed dead and gone, growled in anger.

This time the shadow was not silent as it stormed outside, leaving doors opened as it left, waking the children as the cold of Skyrim's air seeped into their warm beds. Outside, the full moon was coming out, revealing the shadow was really an Argonian dressed in black and red leather, a bright green tail wagging behind him.

To those that knew the uniform, would realize that the Argonian was part of the infamous Dark Brotherhood. The organization that killed to those that prayed to their patrons, the Night Mother and Sithis. While in recent years, the Skyrim branch of this infamous guild was in decline, whether it was because that under the guise of war and racial hate murder was easy to get away with, or a straying from the old ways, was anyone's guess. But that did not mean that people did not quake when they caught sight of black and red out of the corner of their eye or a shadow's movement in the corner.

But the Dark Brotherhood's presence in the city did bring to attention, who had prayed to their dark mother to have Grelod the Kind killed? And would they find the real killer?

The Argonian stalked straight out of the city, ignoring the stares of the guards and late night walkers, and headed straight out into the black of the night. And out into the woods, he came across a black and red clad Dunmer lady, who seemed keen to his agitation.

"What happened? You get caught, Veerava?" She teased.

"No, the old bitch was dead when I got there. Strangled by someone with strong hands" Veerava snarled.

"A-already dead? That was a Dark Brotherhood contract!" The Dunmer snapped.

"My thoughts exactly, so we should find this person and then contact Astrid" Veerava said "So… do you want to do recon, or me?"


	4. First Contact

Writer's block be a bitch

((Sorry about the oneshots, I'll try uploading ones that have just been lying around unfinished instead over the next few days))

* * *

When the sun finally rose, he was already done getting ready for the day. His borrowed armor was on, his pack neatly stacked and arranged, his weapons as well prepared as they would have been, and his rented room already cleaned up.

Not a trace that he had been there. He had even shook the bedsheets out to weaken his scent a touch. And that was how he liked it. Better that he remained unknown.

Heading downstairs, he waved goodbye to Keerava and headed out into the brisk cold air of the new day. He keenly felt the icy air on his skin, and felt himself shudder. However, he barely had the cold for pelts or proper clothing. And realizing that he had a day to waste, had decided to go out hunting in the nearby forest for pelts for both himself and to sell for extra gold. It would feel good to get the cold air off his skin, even if it was always a little cool.

Arming himself with his borrowed daggers, he went out the front gates of Riften, glaring at the guards that had tried to shake money out of him, and then slipped out into the woods.

Being a former thief and an assassin never made one a hunter, NEVER. Being a hunter required an almost completely different training regiment, and if there was a thief/assassin that could hunt that usually meant that they allotted some time to hunting. However, thief/assassin training provided the basic skills for tracking and on foot hunting, the first steps in hutning. And while animals were much more keen on the area around them, and far faster, stronger and more agile than humans, the basics of killing and pickpocketing could help with hitting weak spots in animals. And though he did not have a bow and arrow, he could make do with his blunt daggers.

First, he stalked across the ground, trying to pick up obvious animal tracks. With the freshly fallen leaves, it was rather hard, and he almost felt silly for never having polished his hunting skills in the time that he had been alive. But he needed those pelts, and knew for a fact that some pissed off bear would try and attack him at one point. And while deer pelts were a bit more valuable since they had more desirable meat and bones, a large bear pelt would not only make a pelt for him, but excess to sell.

When he finally found some deer tracks, he carefully followed them until he spotted the creatures. Two young females and a large buck grazing on a patch of almost unfrozen grass. While the two younger females probably were not worth his time, the buck was definitely worth it. Both the pelt, meat and antlers would score him a few pretty Septuims. So, waiting for the buck to lift its prized head upwards, Anton readied one of his daggers. He could throw it with a decent force, and if he could get it into a major artery or even in the buck's eye, then he could claim his prize without having to track down a bleeding, bleating animal.

The leather of the knife felt too rough in his palms. It was not nearly as used or loved as it should have been. The newbie thief had no clue how to properly handle a weapon, but he would show the weapon how it should have been used. All he needed was that damned buck to lift it's head-

Alerted to some noise, the buck snapped its head up, looking around. His arm snapped outwards, flinging the knife with all his strength. The blunt knife flew through the crisp air, and- missed! He forgot the dagger was far lighter than what he usually dealt with, and went to far upward. While the blunt dagger did sink into the buck's thick neck, it missed any arteries, and simply sank into flesh. The great creature wailed loudly, causing the two does to make a break for it.

He was already running as the creature started running blindly further into the woods. His other dagger was at the ready, ready to cut into the beast. If anything, he could run after the creature until it finally passed out from exhaustion or bled to death. Hopefully the poor creature would not have to deal with that.

Giving chase, he followed the creature over fallen logs, weaving in and out of trees, and once barreling through a group of hunters. But he was bound and determined to get that buck, or at the very least his blunt dagger back. And the great thing about being undead? It was next to impossible tire him out. And while his bad throat, made breathing in hard, he did not need to breath. It was only a habit.

After chasing the damned thing for what felt like hours, the buck finally started to slow. It stumbled and fumbled, and finally collapsed to the ground in a heap. Blood ran down its side, marking its way from half way up the neck down to its legs. And seeing that it was still breathing, he placed his other dagger against the creature's eye and thrust it deep into the creature's brain, instantly killing it.

With the creature finally dead, he pried his knife out of the creature's neck and carefully wiped it clean on its already bloodied pelt. The scent of the creature's blood was… tempting. But he easily found the will to ignore the scent. Still, he dragged the corpse over to small creek and washed as much of the blood off as he could, to avoid any accidents. And when that was done, he hauled the creature onto his shoulders, gripping the front legs in one hand and the back legs in the other.

Sighing deeply, he started the long trek back to the city so that he could skin the deer, craft the pelt into something useful, selling the bones and meat, and find some other way to spend the day waiting for his armor.

* * *

Hardly two steps inside the city with his deer and he was already getting oggled like a freak. It seemed that the Nords believed any 'lesser' race was not capable of any physical feats. And he glared at the lot of them. He was not weak because he was small.

If only he had not been born an elf.

Hauling his prize down to the lower levels of Riften, he laid out the deer and brought out his daggers. Posing his dagger for the first cut, he began the tedious task of skinning, gutting, and cutting the best pieces of meat from the creature and tossing the rest into the murky waters for whatever fish to eat. When everything was cut and ready, he washed his bloody hands in the murky water, watching the fish coming up to nibble on his fingers curiously, before swimming away.

Packing the meat and bones into the pelt, he hauled the bones to the alchemists. He believed that they used the bones in potions. He was not really sure, he never did like potion making except for the occasional poison. But he was sure that a trained expert would know.

The kind lady had use for the antlers and a few of the bones, but she told him that the rest would be rather useless. She paid him, in full strangely, and wished him well as, which was also strange. But at least he actually had some gold to his name now, which meant that he could probably have had his daggers sharpened or perhaps some cloth to cover himself in. It also helped lessen the edge of the sour opinion of Nords. The old lady was the last person he expected to be kind to him.

Discarding the useless bones into the water, he walked up to the food vender and sold her the venison. And being the kindly Dunmer that she was, also paid in full for the meat, complimenting him on 'such a fine' catch. She also asked that she would also buy anymore meat he had, saying that it was so much fresher to buy it from local hunters rather than trying to buy salted meats from traders.

"Fresh meat always tastes the best. It beats frozen and salted every time" She said as she neatly wrapped the slabs of venison and tucked them into her cart "You can taste the life, the blood, of the creature when its fresh, even if you cook it"

He wanted to laugh at the small joke, but then realized that it would have been inappropriate and next to impossible. So he nodded and pocketed the coins she handed over.

And then the pelt he took over to the blacksmith. The big blonde Nord was cutting into a large section of leather, and offered a nod as he stretched out the pelt on the rack. It seemed that the Nord was almost done with the armor, and figured that it would take as long for him to finish as it would to finish the pelt. Besides, while the big man was still a fucking Nord, at least he was a Nord that did not think himself of a 'better race' or at least had the mind to not say anything.

So he sat and worked over the pelt with his daggers, sitting in content silence with the blacksmith as the quiet sounds of the marketplace hummed in the background. There were times that someone came over to the blacksmith to talk or order something. When it was to talk, he tried to rarely stop working the leather. When he had to, wither to go grab something or to handle something, he tried to pick up the work again as soon as he could. When it was to order, he quickly took notes or measurements and then got back to working the leather into armor.

There was a small argument with some crabby Nord woman about him not immediately getting to work on his order. But then the blacksmith retorted about her never coming to pick up her order of daggers, obviously never wanting them to begin with. She tried saying that it was his job to deliver, and then told her that if she expected that then he would start charging for the footwork and loss of dignity. And upon hearing that, she ceased her arguing and paid for her order.

Other than that, it was a quiet several hours.

Occasionally he peeked over to watch the progress. It was… pleasant to watch as it slowly formed. At times he was tempted to say something because it did not look right, but then realized that he could not, and had to watch for several moments until more progress was made and he could make sense of it. And other times he was just satisfied with a single glance and focused on his pelt.

As the sun was setting, he was finished with his pelt. The inside was supple enough to bend around his body, and could be made to be soft with use and certain oils. The fur was soft enough and certainly warming enough. So he wrapped it around himself, simply to get the icy air of his skin. He quickly sharpened his daggers to a deadly point, figuring that he should have done that while there was a sharpening stone nearby. And when that was done, he sat by the forge to warm.

While he was huddled in his pelt, a certain Dunmer in average clothing met up with an Argonian in average clothing over by the Temple of Mara.

"From what I've gathered, no one saw the damned person besides the orphans and the new Headmistress" Veerava grumbled.

"And none of their stories match" Gabriella said "We're looking for, either an Orc with a real mean look, a dark skinned Dunmer, a tattooed Bosmer or a Redguard. And dressed in a leather skirt, leather gauntlets and leather boots with a Mohawk"

"Well, they might have not left the city yet. Let's look for the armor and hair at least, can't be too many like that"

"Right"

And the two split up again.

* * *

Just as the other merchants were packing up for the night, the blacksmith finished the final touches of his armor. He stayed to make sure that everything fit, which it did like a glove, and then headed home as well. And with his armor finished, he could finally start hunting that assassin's guild down.

With his pelt carefully wrapped around his skinny body, he could protect make a pseudo hood to pull over his head to protect his head and sensitive ears, and a bit of the pelt handing out the sleeves to protect his upper arms. With a bit of extra pelt, he extended his boots to protect him from the knee down. Now he was carefully covered from the icy air, he was more then ready for his travels.

Under the darkening cover of the quickly approaching night, he headed out to leave through the front gates. He had hoped to avoid detection, or at least avoid any heckling from the fucking Nords. He just wanted to make it into the woods so that he could avoid anyone and everyone. He felt like he had had his fill of the living for at least a few days.

He almost made it past the gates, almost. But just outside of the gates were a Dunmer and an Argonian. They took one look at him, seeing the tattoos on his face and along his elbows, and the Argonian hissed

"You!"

He turned to run, but the Dunmer was faster, reaching out and grabbing him and dragging him close enough for the Argonian to grab him as well. He reflectively tried to yell, but only a dry wheeze escaped his mouth. And when he threw a pleading look to the guards at the gate, they acted like he was not there. Of course, fucking Nords would ignore the blight of an elf.

The two dragged him away from the gates and into the woods. And when they were far enough from prying eyes, they tossed him to the ground. He was on his feet and wielding his daggers a second later, but the Dunmer was wielding two hands of fire and the Argonian was wielding two Daedric daggers. He was outnumbered, but there was the chance that he was not out-

"We know that you killed Grelod" The Argonian hissed.

...well shit.

He growled lowly, a rough rumble in the back of his throat.

"Now, that was a contract for the Dark Brotherhood, care to explain why YOU killed her"

… for the Dark Brotherhood. He heard of them, a guild that followed the dark patrons the Night Mother and Lord Sithis. When people prayed to the dark mother, an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood would come to hear the plea and kill the victim of the prayer's choice. It was a dark guild, but exactly what he was looking for.

With his silence, the Dunmer grew agitated, but the Argonian did not.

"Show us your throat"

Scowling, he pulled back his hood and turned his head to the side enough to show off the impressive scar, but not enough to put him at a disadvantage if the Argonian or Dunmer decided to strike.

"Mute" The Argonian said.

He seemed to maul something over… and then sheathed his daggers.

"Come on, Gabriella, we need to head back to Astrid"

"What?" The Dunmer hissed, but then scowled and extinguished the fire in her hands.

Glaring at them, Anton was confused for a moment. What were they planning?

The Argonian motioned for the elf to leave, and after glaring at him, swiftly left in the darkness. And after making sure that she was definitely gone, he turned back to Anton.

"Well be in touch"

And then disappeared into the darkness as well, leaving Anton to the blackness that he was usually in company with.


	5. The Fool and his Mother

For three days, he could not stop looking over his shoulder. At nights, he sat in the darkest part of caves, clutching his daggers and preparing for the two assassins to show up again. During the day he acted like he was always sneaking around his opponent, making sure that no one saw him and he was seen by nothing. He avoided cities and villages, and most populated woods simply to avoid anything that could see him.

For three days, he could not stop thinking about how they figured out it had been him so quickly.

He had been sure that the children did not get a good look at him. Not to mention, his tattoos made his skin tone look much darker than it did, coupled with his red eyes he could often be confused with a small Dunmer. Not only that, but he had been wrapped up and covered when they saw him, how could they have known?!

Remaining awake for three days gave him time to think about that question.

At first he figured that the children had seen him more clearly than he had previously thought. And being young and as revenge thirsty as they were, they probably told tales of his actions to anyone that listened. That seemed like the logical choice, but then that brought up the issue of him never being harassed or arrested by local guards. The worst he got were lewd calls and glares, never once except that one time did anyone even utter that old bitch's name.

Unless they told highly exaggerated tales of what he had done. Perhaps they had made him taller, more muscular, perhaps they had changed him from an elf to a Nord, an Orc, a Dunmer or even a Redguard. Perhaps they had made him into something dark and mean looking, like a monster. It would explain why they questioned him but did not take him in, just one of many suspects that seemed the less likely. It would also explain how they found him, being trained assassins they had quickly narrowed down the list until he remained and then he had foolishly stumbled into them.

As much as he wanted to noe believe it… but his foolish mistakes had come back to bite him. He should have found a way to kill her without getting detected, or perhaps not have killed her to begin with. After all, the affairs of Nords were not his to mess around with. He should have left it all be. But that damned shred of humanity had surfaced so quickly… he could not stop himself.

And he had been caught. And now for all he knew he was being watched.

As much as he wanted to join an assassin's guild, they had said that he had stolen a contract from the guild. Any other assassin's guild he had ever heard of or was part of would normally kill anyone that stole contract unless it was an accident or out of their control. He killed the old bitch in cold blood, and he could not fight his case with words with his damned throat!

He needed… he needed to disappear. At least until he could gather some intel on the Dark Brotherhood, or at least made them think that they had scared him out of Skyrim. He could not live his life on the run, always looking over his shoulder.

He wondered where he would go, not knowing Skyrim well. He needed a place that was populated but small, easy to completely scope out, easy to have eyes and ears everywhere. And after listening in on passing by hunters, merchants and travelers on the roads, he decided to take a chance and head towards Whiterun. It seemed populated, but not too much, with most of the Hold's space going to the palace for the Jarl. Not only that, they had a mixed enough population for him not to stand out too much.

He took his time getting there, making sure that no one was following him, no one was tracking him. It was a bit exhausting, but eventually his made his way across Skyrim towards Whiterun. Most of his traveling was done at night, as it was easier for him to move under the blackness of night as most vampires found themselves weakened under the bright rays of the sun. Not only that, but he only had to worry about smart hunters and the odd individuals traveling at night rather than having to deal with day traffic.

Eventually, he made it to an area roughly north of Whiterun. He could almost see the hold against the dark night sky. The windless night allowed a trace amount of heat to gather in the air, but that did not meant that he still did not find bone chillingly cold. He could hear the distant sounds of the Hold in the distance, the sound of a nearby farm and-

"OOOH!"

… a very high pitched man screaming in frustration.

Looking from the safety of some tall foliage, he spied what could have only been described as a small jester, jumping up and down in complete and utter frustration as he faced a cart with a busted wheel. To add to the strangeness of the scene, the cart was carrying a large and heavy iron casket.

Well… that was not a sight one saw often, almost comical without the casket. And for some reason… he was curious enough to go and look. Perhaps it was his damned humanity making a come back, or perhaps he was simple curious about the strange sight.

Stalking forward with the silent grace of the assassin he was, he almost made it the strange man. As he drew closer, he realized that the strange man was almost the exact same height as himself. And there was red hair poking out from underneath his jester hat… and that was when suddenly the strange little man twirled around and Anton found a knife pressed against his useless throat. Up close, he saw a dark and wicked glint to the little man's eyes and the crazed smile carved into his features. It was the face of a killer.

And then it was gone, replaced with a jolly smile and apologetic eyes.

"So sorry, friend! Cicero has good ears, heard you sneaking up on him. Very rude to sneak up on someone like Cicero" The man, Cicero, tutted as he replaced the knife into his belt.

He rubbed his throat, shuddering as he realized what kind of being he was dealing with. As crazy as he appeared, the little man before him was a trained killer, a killer that loved what he did and had lost himself some time along the way. This was the kind of person he hoped to never become. A killer that loved what he did… was a dangerous person indeed.

"Cicero apologizes anyway, he did not mean to act so rudely himself! But low, poor Cicero, his wagon wheel is broken and he has no way of fixing it. He tried to ask the farmer up the hill, but he will not! What is poor Cicero to do?"

He was unsure how to approach this…

"If you help poor Cicero, he'll pay you! Shiny, clinky, coin for your troubles"

Well… when it was put that way…

He always needed money, and if he could get paid for getting a man to help Cicero, then perhaps it would be the cleanest bit of work he had done in a good long time. And perhaps… he felt a pang of pity for the man. The assassins, the killers, the silent thieves, the ones that ended up enjoying what they did far too much. Each time he started to enjoy his job there was always a tragedy to remind him otherwise. The poor man needed to face a tragedy to remind himself of his humanity.

But perhaps… it was alright to help him with a spot of bad luck.

He nodded to the strange man and then headed up to the farm.

It took several loud knocks to garner the attention of the man inside. And when Anton managed that the man was none too pleased about being woken up in the middle of the night. He grumbled as he answered the door, and swore under his breath at the sight of Anton on his doorstep. Anton glared darkly at the man in return.

"What do you want, elf?" He spat.

He jerked a thumb towards Cicero and the jester's broken cart. The farmer looked over his head towards the way he was pointing out and scowled deeper. It seemed that the man knew full well about Cicero and was not happy about his presence.

"You want me to help the jester? Listen, I just don't trust the guy. Dressing up like a jester? The way he talks? And that casket. He could be smuggle all sorts of things in there. I realize he said he was transporting his mother's remains across…"

Sighing deeply, he took out his notebook and scribbled down his response before showing the man.

_But what if he is transporting his mother's remains? Then you look like an ass for not helping a fellow out_

Squinting to spy the words, the man grumbled to himself for a moment.

"True"

_Or is this because he's a Brenton?_

"What? No, of course not!"

_Then what is the problem? He is a man in need of some help and you have the means of helping him. Yet you hold out because of the 'ifs' and 'whys'_

"Alright! You may be right. I'll… I'll help him out. But in the morning!"

_You better keep to your word_

Stowing his notebook away, Anton jogged down the path to Cicero to share the good news with him. Upon seeing his approach, the little man started to almost bounce in anticipation. His shrill voice pierced the silent night air.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Does Cicero's friend return with news for him?"

He nodded and was treated with a small dance from the small jester as he twirled around and rejoiced. He did not have the heart to say that he had to wait until morning for help to arrive, seeing that small man just so plain happy that someone was going to help him.

"Oh joyous of days! My dear, sweet mother is going to get to her new home! Poor Cicero is saved, thank you stranger, thank you!" Cicero cheered.

Stopping abruptly, enough to make Anton flinch, the jester reached into the pouch on his belt and scooped out a handful of coins and held them out.

"As promised friend, coins for you trouble"

Carefully taking the coins, Anton added them to his own coin purse. When all the coins were tucked away, he was about to bid the strange jester a silent farewell-

"Excuse Cicero, friend. But could I ask you another favor?"

He cocked his head in a questioning manner.

"If Cicero sees you again, he would like to be able to spot your face among a crowd" Cicero said with a jolly smile "May Cicero see your face?"

Hesitation.

He was already on the run because of one stupid move. Revealing his face… perhaps it was not as bad as killing a old woman in cold blood in front of several witnesses and then not ensuring the silence of those witnesses. But revealing his face when he was supposed to be keeping his identity as secret as possible, to be just another elf in the crowd, could come back later to haunt him. After all, he had a vague idea of the little man's mental health, no telling if he would suddenly snap and come back later to-

Cicero suddenly chuckled, and his and snapped forward, gloved fingers snagging the edges of his hood. He caught the wrist of that hand, squeezing in a threatening manner. Cicero just kept smiling that same smile, now with a harsh edge and his eyes with a dark glint. The man was plotting something. Anton felt tendons straining under his hand, but not in a manner meant to move, more like a test of the restraint. Cicero's other hand was at his side, clearly relaxed. He felt his free arm go lax, ready to tense and grab his dagger when this strange jester went for his.

However… he did not dislike the situation.

It had been awhile he had been in a enjoyable stressful. It had been too long since he had a challenge of skills rather than a general challenge. And that was what this was. This Cicero fellow was sizing him up so to speak. Perhaps he saw the way he moved, the way he reacted, perhaps he saw something in the way he had snuck up behind the jester. Or perhaps somewhere in that crazy little mind of his, Cicero needed a challenge as well, and he saw a challenge in Anton.

After a moment of utter stillness, Anton relaxed his grip. His powerful grip turned to a simple holding of the jester's wrist. And with his wrist no longer in danger of being broke, Cicero pushed the hood back just enough for the moonlight to illuminate his face. He was not totally sure what the jester could see now, but he was fairly certain that his red eyes could now be seen. And if this killer was anywhere near as good as he gave off, then he would be able to recognize the colors as the undead.

And then his hood was pulled forward again, and he let go of the jester's wrist.

"It was very good to meet you again, friend" Cicero smiled, "He hopes to see you again"

Smirking lightly, he nodded and then headed down the road, disappearing into the foliage when he was sure that he was out of the jester's sight range.


	6. These Friends of Mine

The sun was just starting to throw off the dark hued blankets of the night as he come across Whiterun. He glared offhandedly at the bright reds and oranges that were slowly working their way into the sky, and tried to nonchalantly walk faster to the hold.

Not that the sun did much to vampires, but losing the ability to heal and having the glaring light blind him was rather annoying. And he rather did not like having to squint in the daylight, it gave Nords another reason to harass him.

The guards glared at him darkly as he approached the main gates, but allowed the little elf inside. Probably because with such a popular hold had to have a racially diverse in-traffic, they were forced to at least not be ass-hats about different races coming into the city. Perhaps that was something better about an uncorrupted Hold, at least it was pleasant on the surface. Of course any amount of scratching brought out the ugly insides, but pretty at the very least.

Walking past a blacksmith just stoking the flames of her forge, and a fellow Bosmer unlocking the doors to his shop, past a house with the lights still on, and then into a small square filled with small shops and stalls and what he guessed by the impressive odor of mead, the local tavern.

He figured he would see if they would offer him a room to sleep away a few of the morning hours to the darkened evening hours. If not, if he sat and bought mead for a few hours, he was sure that they would not complain. If Nords made anything clear, they hated his race but quickly shut up when gold was brought out.

Thankfully for him, as he stepped inside, it appeared whoever was there was past the point of intoxication, out cold, or simply there to take advantage of some hot meals before heading to work. Hardly anyone even looked at him as he silently stepped up the counter. The tired looking lady Nord was wiping down a glass as he approached.

"What can I get you?" She asked.

He brought out his notebook and scribbled down his answer

_Do you have a room available?_

"Yes, ten gold" She said, placing the glass away, only to pick up another.

Well, at least she was not cold enough to overcharge him. Perhaps things were looking up for him?

He passed her the gold and she passed him a key.

So far so-

"Anton?"

...Shit

Turning around, Anton was greeted with the sight of a large Nord. This was… rather large for a Nord, standing perhaps about a head taller than the average Nord, while also being a bit broader with muscle and sheer size. Short black hair peppered with grey hairs, and an extensive scar the length of his face that seemed to have claimed the sight in one of his eyes. And… wait a moment. He knew this Nord!

He tapped the Nord's chest, Gunnar's chest, and threw the Nord a small grin. If there was any Nord that proved there was still good in the race, it was Gunnar.

"Hey, you remember me!" Gunnar grinned.

He bobbed his head.

"Almost didn't recognize you though, nice to see you found yourself some armor" Gunnar said with a genuine smile "Though I never doubted that you'd be able too. You seem like a resourceful boy"

He cocked his head. Boy, was he?

"What? That I had faith in you or boy? I always have faith in people, until they prove otherwise. And I know you elves can live for bloody long times, but I'm old in human terms, I call everyone childish nicknames… unless their old like me"

For some reason, he felt like he could not get mad with being called boy by Gunnar. The man, while indeed old and somewhat childish, did seem like he had fountains of wisdom within himself. And at least he knew that Gunnar did not mean to seem demeaning or insulting. No, he meant it to be endearing. Or perhaps it was because one could not help but be in a good mood around the fatherly Nord.

"Join me for a moment? I'd love to catch up with you" Gunnar grinned.

He nodded and joined the big Nord by the fire, trying not to feel extra small next to Gunnar's large frame.

"So, what've you been doing? Any wild adventures? Or perhaps, 'wild' adventures" Gunnar said with a shameless grin.

He smacked the big Nord's arm, making him laugh.

"Alright, but that just means I'll have to make up whatever you don't tell me. So far I see Khajiits as far as the eye can see"

He scowled at the Nord.

"Oh alright, no Khajiits. But seriously, how have you been. Haven't seen you since after Helgen"

He thought for a moment. A dead thief, a dead Orphanage headmistress, the Dark Brotherhood were probably hunting him and he was looking to join an Assassin's guild. However he was sure that, even though Gunnar's disposition was cheery, that the big Nord would wring his neck for any of those things. Perhaps being mute had its own advantages. So instead he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing much, eh? Me either. I just joined a warrior's guild, been trying to get this sour little pup off my back. He's kind of cute though, being grumpy all the time" He laughed.

He cocked an eyebrow. A pinnacle of strength and all things Nords and he fancied lads. Not that he had a problem with it, but he figured that Nords only fancied boy elves for exotic conquests. He did not think that male Nords could get off on anything unless they were proving to be the stronger person. He did not think that… Nords could simply love.

"What? I'm at the age, I know what I want? And I think after dealing with what I've dealt with, I'm going to start looking for someone to settle down with, someone to slap a ring on and simply be with for the rest of my days" Gunnar sighed happily "How about you? Not sure how your years work, and you certainly look like a young thing. Are you at the age where you want to settle down, or do you still got some adventures left inside of you?"

Considering he was undead… he had quite a lot of time ahead of him if no one successfully killed him. Even before the curse though… he was turned at a fairly young age for elves. What was he? Just shy of fifty, if he recalled correctly. That was a lot in a human sense, but short in a sense of his people. Of course, that was almost six centuries ago. Not only was he old, but he was ancient to most of his people.

He shrugged in response. How could he? In one sense he was young, and in the other he was beyond his time. Was this the time to settle down, or continue adventuring in his case?

"Eh, still undecided? Well I'm sure you've got time no matter what, I don't have much left" Gunnar smiled good heartedly.

He nodded.

As much as he did not want to think about it… Gunnar had a point about time. There was only so much of it. Sure, his was almost unlimited unless someone managed to kill him. But… could he really just keep killing forever? Could he just watch the world grow old around him while? Could he remain in the shadows while lives passed before his very eyes?

Gunnar patted him on the back, grinning warmly.

"So, boy, how's Skyrim treating you?"

He scowled darkly.

"Yeah, home of the Nords. Can't say I'm proud to be one of them" Gunnar laughed "Just so you know, not all of us are complete and utter milk drinking assholes"

He pointed at Gunnar

"Nah, people keep calling me an asshole, I just happen to be a likeable asshole" Gunnar laughed.

He smirked a little. He sure was.

* * *

After roughly an hour of talking, Gunnar let him go to his room, bidding him a good day, good luck and a happy life if they never saw each other again.

And honestly… he felt better than he had in days. After struggling over such trivial things, it was nice not having to struggle or fight against anything. And it was honestly nice to just sit and talk with someone not throwing petty insults or sideways threats or expecting money out of him for simply being in their presence.

The last few days, he admitted to himself, were rough to say the least. Then again, he had never really been in a human dominated land before. His interactions with humans had always been elf dominated lands, where they had been blemishes on the otherwise enjoyable populous. Now it was the other way around, with him being the blemish against the pale skinned Nords. While it was the Nords being in his lands, they were merely annoying and loud bugs. In this land he gathered that the elves were quiet and complacent. And that did not bode well if he had to fight a Nord off.

He wished all Nords were like Gunnar. Even if that meant that there would be thousands of sarcastic ass-hats running around. It would mean that the Nords would be much more open minded about the other races. And perhaps then they would not be killing each other over the shape of one's ears, eyes and one's skin color. But sadly most Nords learned to be pigheaded bastards from their pigheaded parents, and those pigheaded children raised more pig-headed children. And the cycle went on and on. But, thankfully, Gunnar was different.

And he felt good enough to let himself smile. The alien motion made his cheeks feel weird, but at least it was genuine and not him faking it around the big Nord. Then again, he was sure that Gunnar would be able to tell the difference and call him out on it. And perhaps… with Nords like Gunnar around then some of them would learn something about not being bastards. Hopefully. Not always true.

And stripping himself of his armor he was able to slip into his bed comfortably and without any woes or troubles bothering his mind.

* * *

Cold, hard, wood, a slight breeze from frigid air rolling across his back.

His mind was already trying to register details even as it groggily dragged itself from the deep depths of slumber.

His wrists, waist and ankles were sore, like someone had grabbed them too tightly shortly ago. His face was pressed against splintery, cold wood, the slight drying of his lips suggesting that he had been unconscious for several hours already. The slight bitter taste on his tongue suggested some sort of drug slipped past his lips as he slept, the throbbing migraine confirming the suspicion.

His fingers curled against, slight aching in the joints suggested a mild paralytic agent had been added to make him complacent, even when he woke up. And upon realizing this, he focused past the pain in his head to see if any parts of his body felt violated. However, his skin did not sting with bruises, his butt did not hurt like it had been penetrated, his dick did not feel like it had been used or released recently, and the bitter taste on his mouth was definitely from the drug.

He forced his arms underneath himself and managed to shove himself up right, feeling every joint practically scream in protest, and groggily looked around. His migraine made his vision swim and triple for a moment before he forced his painful head to focus. When everything stopped swimming, he realized he was in a rickety old, basically barren things that had probably been left behind by the previous owners.

When his eyes had finally focused, his night vision kicked in. And that was when he heard the small sound within the same room. He spun around and saw three people, kneeling the floor with burlap sacks tied closed around their heads. And then he heard the smallest and breathest of chuckles.

Spinning around, he saw a small, darkly cloaked figure resting on top of a shelf.

"Sleep well?" A dark voice practically purred.

He looked up at the woman, blinking rapidly and started wheezing in confusion.

Well shit.


End file.
